Unnecessary Emotions
by Ghostgirl468
Summary: Sherlock learns the vast unpredictability of emotions that he deems unnecessary. Warning: Character death, mild drug use, and a lot of emotional drabble. Rated T because I DO understand ratings :/
1. Prologue

Hellloo there.

So, I'm Ghostgirl468 and I'll be your writer and distributer for today.

I have got some kind of writing experience, with a couple other Sherlock fanfics (feel free to go and read them :D) but this one isn't really very similiar to the others, so you'll just have to read on and find out :)

My one and only **Disclaimer **is this one: I do NOT own _Sherlock_. None of us do. Please stop rubbing it in our faces with these disclaimers.

As you can proabbly read, this is just a prologue, because the actual story needs this to sort of make sense. Also, it takes a little while to get into, so please bare with me :)

**Warning:** Character Death :'(

Prologue

_There was rain on his shoulders, clouds at his heels. Dark ones, bulking and growing in an already darkened sky._

_Three figures were just visible in the dim light; one lay on the ground, barely moving; another kneels by his side, almost frozen in time; and the third stood at a distance, watching and waiting, a mobile clasped in his hand, a footstep ready to fall._

_Sherlock was cold. But he didn't realise it. He was too focused on the dying man in front of him, too frantic to worry about anything other than how to save John Watson._

_As his eyes jumped nervously searching for something to do, and words tumbled endlessly out of his mouth explaining ways to fix it, ways to save him, a worn hand touched his arm, and warm eyes smiled up at him distant, but certain. _

_"Sherlock"._

_It wasn't really a question, but Sherlock leapt at it anyway, grasping his hand, "Yes? Yes John, what is it? What do I do, tell me, you're the doctor, what do I do?"._

_A shaking head, a pause. "Nothing...Y-You can't...It's t-too late to do...anyth-thing"._

_Quizzical glances are thrown at the slowly fading man. "But...?". There is a silencing look between them. He nods, slightly but definitely. He understands._

_A frown passed over John's features, and his eyes glazed just a tint more, looking past Sherlock and up at the sky. "I-It's raining...W-Why didn't I n - ...notice that?_

_Contrasting smiles are shared, but they both warm the other._

_"You know, I thought a-after...surviving Afghanistan...running around after...you w-would be...nothing"._

_Sherlock smirked, gazing up at the sky with him, "The immortal soldier?"._

_John closed his eyes, "Yeah...Something like...like that"._

_Sherlock's gaze falls again, suddenly anxious, "John?"._

_The body below him jumps, and bleary eyes open half-way. Sherlock can still see a light behind them, but it's dwindling, just like the man he is holding onto. _

_A word is mumbled, "Sherlock?". This time it is a question, without meaning to be. The eyes look at him then, right at him, as they take in every feature, and in turn Sherlock takes in every thought. And with a final flicker, they widen slightly, before sliding shut forever. _

_There is a pause in the air. A hesitation in which Lestrade does drop his foot, shuffling forward a step, and a siren blares once in the distance as if to remind them that a minute longer could have change everything, and the rain stops, just for a moment, and watches as a soul rises and vanishes. And then everything starts again. Sherlock shakes John's shoulder lightly, "John?". He doesn't expect a response, but it's still feels nice to ask._

_Then Sherlock's head drops slightly, his expression falters. For a single second the genius inside him has disappeared with John, and all that is left is an empty, crumbling shell. And then he regains himself, his expression blank, and he rises from the spot, dropping the dead man's hand without a second care, shaking the blood from his own hands, huddling into the collar of his coat, and walking away from the scene without a backwards glance. There are no emotions for Sherlock Holmes, because they are unnecessary._

oOo

Thank you very much for reading to the end of the page. As already mentioned it is just a prologue - but feel free to review if you want!


	2. Grief

Ok, so firstly, thank you lots and lots for your lovely reviews everyone :) its nice to know that people enjoyed the prologue, now hopefully the story will be just as good. Basically, it's about Sherlock "Dealing" with John's death, by going through all these emotions that he doesn't recognise, and so doesn't know what to do with them. Hopefully it won't be too soppy because we still need Sherlock to be Sherlock, but then maybe it will. I'm not quite sure where it's going yet :)

Also, there's been a bit of confusion and I've changed most of this chapter because there is another Sherlock fanfic story which is brilliant and everything but its last chapter was almost EXACTLY the same as what this chapter was going to be :( So to avoid being criticised for copying and because fate and coincidence are working together against me, I've re-wrote quite a lot of it and moved some things forward and some things backwards but hopefully it still makes sense :) and I'm sure you'll tell me if it doesn't :)

oOo

Grief

"_Deep mental anguish, especially caused by someone's death"_

oOo

Scotland Yard Death Report

NAME: John H. Watson

OCCUPATION: Military Doctor of ten years. Served in Afghanistan before returning to London after an non-fatal, but grounding, shoulder wound. Currently working doctor at local clinic.

D.O.D: September 27th, 2010.

CAUSE OF DEATH: Gun shot, left side.

WITNESSES AT DEATH: Detective Inspector G Lestrade. Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.

AUTOPSY: Carried out by Surgeon Molly Hooper - report revealed internal bleeding in the left lung, an after-effect of the emergency surgery to remove the bullet from the wound which pierced through the patients left side. Injury was called in at 12.21am. Patient was brought to St Bartholomew's Hospital at 12.43am. Patient declared deceased at 1.09am.

Witness statements, Autopsy report and Investigating conclusions to be attached before entry.

oOo

Etching over every possibly important word in the document with his finger, Sherlock's eyes shifted across the paper once more, before dropping it carelessly onto the table.

It wasn't that he was...how had Lestrade put it?..._Upset_. No, he wasn't that, almost certainly. Because that was an unnecessary emotion, and Sherlock Holmes did not do anything that was unnecessary. Other people did those kind of emotions, normal people. They had more experience with the unimportant, unnecessary subject. The emotions would be left to them, as they had been since John's...since the Event.

Lestrade had been the desperate, rushed one when the shot was fired and blood poured onto cobblestone streets and warm hands clutched and teared for life_._

Several, weakened, passer-bys - including mutual friend Mike Stamford, and a hurried tear-filled Mrs Hudson - had been the comforting, and doubly anxious ones when Sherlock had been crumpled in a plastic chair, staring at the white brick wall which stood in front of his dying colleague_._

Mycroft - being the nosy git he was - had been the respectful and annoyingly, _**present **_one, when an undistinguished doctor had beckoned them towards a doorway with long, worn fingers and a grave expression that could challenge the grim reaper.

And Harry, the sister he had never met, and whom he had momentarily seen entering the morgue as he left, was, and always would be, the upset one. The grieving one.

To be fair, they all carried out these emotions with immense dedication and effectiveness, far more than Sherlock himself could ever even imagine to manage.

So Sherlock wasn't upset at all. He wouldn't allow himself to be. John was just another death in the world, one that Sherlock didn't – _couldn't –_ care about. In fact, he would forget his name right now. Right..._**now**_.

_Hmm...Why am I standing on the stairs in the dark in a dripping wet coat?_ Chewing on the thought, Sherlock climbed the remaining steps and walked casually through the slightly ajar door.

So now here he was, back in their - no, his; that thought would have to be corrected - flat, drenched with ignored rain that had shattered charcoal skies - very much following the dramatic cliché, as Sherlock had noticed, but not said, mainly because there was no longer anyone to say it too.

The kettle was switched on subconsciously, following a familiar ritual of what to do in these kind of situations - make tea and move on. To Sherlock's slight surprise, a mug was already set up for him, as was a second, beside it, which he ignored, because it wasn't necessary to acknowledge it. Then, Sherlock slowly folded himself onto the couch and lay back. His eyes fell on the skull, which at that moment seemed to protrude out from the gloom of the mantelpiece, and lingered there for perhaps a moment longer than they should have. Maybe that was what gave it away, because the empty black sockets stared back at him in pity.

His frown twitching, Sherlock glared back, silently threatening a trip back to Mrs Hudson's airing cupboard, and swept his glance back to the report, which lay on the desk and was now growing relentlessly boring to his minds eye. Sighing distastefully, he closed his eyes, dedicating the rest of his alert brain to more complicated, _intriguing _matters...

...When something soft was thrown onto his face and a voice began calling his name distantly. Sitting up, dragging the cushion down to the ground - his mind casually observed that there was a union jack stitched across it - he focused on the face of the man who had called him.

It was Lestrade, who looked more tired than usual and was watching him as if ready to tackle Sherlock to the ground.

"Something wrong Lestrade?", he asked, sighing again, before noticing that there was light slowly sifting through the curtains. He must have fallen asleep. How odd. He ignored it, concentrating on the present.

Which was a stuttering detective. "W-Wrong? Did you really just ask that?...Do you - ?".

As if answering the question to which he should of known, but strangely didn't, Sherlock rearranged a quizzical frown, and closed his eyes again. "I don't have time for your incoherent babble Lestrade. I seem to have forgotten something which I'm trying to remember, so please shut up and go away".

Well, most of that was true. He had forgotten something. He was desperately trying to remember something. But it was _**not**_ the thing that Lestrade clearly thought it was, because suddenly iron strong hands were dragging him upwards, and Sherlock was sitting in a frazzled mess when a haggard face looked back, level with his own. "Sherlock. Please tell me...I-I don't want to say this but...You know, don't you? You know he's not gone or missing or kidnapped or anything? You do know that?".

A flash of something - possibly indigestion, more likely a reaction from the unusual phenomenon of too much sleep - sped through Sherlock like a distant reminder. He even shivered. _It must be cold in here_, he pondered. And then he was staring back at Lestrade, slightly irritated.

"Yes, Lestrade. I am not, as some people may describe this, in a state of shock. I am well aware that _he _is - ...of that fact. It is irrelevant. Unimportant. So please refrain from wasting my time on the matter and tell me why you are here". Shrugging the detective's grip away, he stood - only just remembering he was still in his coat - and walked towards the mantelpiece, inconspicuously turning the skull around to face the wall .

He was fine, there was no doubt about it. Perfectly fine. So long as he didn't remember _him_ in any way other than that _he _wasn't there.

On the other side of the room, Lestrade unfroze from his position and pivoted around to face Sherlock's back. "Wait, no, wait. Unimportant? Sherlock, we're talking about J - ".

"Lestrade! We have already over exaggerated your point! Now will you just tell me what the hell you're doing here?". _Hmm. What was that? Anger, emphasised anger. Unusual. __Must be another result of too much sleep. John was always exceedingly grumpier in the mornings than the ni..._

_Wait._

_What was that? John? John...Oh no..._There was a series of images, locked away in some stubborn part of his brain, slowly _unlocking_ as the name grew louder and louder..._ Rain. Shadows. Empty words. An ambulance or two. Shouts. Tears. Blood. _

_John. Blood. Dead._

_No._

_Not John. Someone else. Rearrange images. Concentrate on facts. Playback. Focus...Blood. Blood. Gunshot. Blood..."Sherlock"..."John?". _

_NO!_

"Sherlock?". The hands were back, grasping his arms and shaking him violently. His vision re-focusing, Sherlock felt his heart was jumping far too loudly than normal. Lifting them slightly, he realised his hands were shaking. Pupils dilating, wet. Tears? No, no, no, Sherlock Holmes was beyond unnecessary emotions. Tears meant two things; laughter or crying.

Deciding almost definitely that it _could __**not**_ be crying, and with a strange, suddenly desperate giggle churning inside him, Sherlock went for the former and began laughing out loud. It wasn't long before he was shaking all over, tears pouring down his face.

Lestrade drove him towards the couch again, and promptly sat him down, trying to calm him, telling him it was normal to be in shock.

_Shock? How idiotically blind Lestrade was, unable to deduce simple emotions. I thought he had experience with these things? _He was drenched now, in his own tears, and a strange sense of de ja vu, and his throat and chest hurt from the increasing booms of laughter with every inhale and exhale.

But at least he wasn't upset, Sherlock reasoned.

OOo

Sorry if I made Sherlock a bit OOC in that last bit, it might be upsetting to see him losing control like that. I actually doubt he would ever be that hysterical about John's death, maybe just a bit sad and confused, but it's a different angle and I think it will do for now :) The chapter is about grief after all, and Sherlock, in the end, _is _a human being, even if he's a slightly alien kind. So, hope it meets the standards and that you like and love and please review.


	3. Regret

I couldn't thank you enough for all your reviews. I know it's a difficult story to comprehend (I really hate the one's where there are character deaths, so I've no idea how this story came into my head?) but I hope its emotional and moving enough to be loved and I am so happy to see you are all reading and reviewing.

So, for the second unnecessary emotion we have regret. I'm always regretting things, so hopefully my unsailable experience will make it all the better. Enjoy.

oOo

Regret

"_Remembering with a feeling of loss or disappointment"_

oOo

It was late. Very late. Or possibly very early. It was also difficult to tell when the curtains were slammed together and clutter of boxes and books and _John's things_ where piled and packed in front of the windows. The door was jammed shut too, with the coffee table. And the other armchair. And the microwave for good measure. Sherlock would not, _could not_ leave the flat, and as far as he concerned, that meant that no one was getting inside either.

Lestrade had left hours ago. Hours and hours. It turned otu that he had come to tell Sherlock abotu John's funeral, which was the following Tuesday (today was Friday), and would be held in central London. Harry had apparently said it was to allow John's work colleagues - people like Sherlock - to attend without having to travel far.

_What a waste of thought and energy_, had been Sherlock's reaction. He wasn't going. Why would he?

So, Lestrade was gone, visitors were barred against will, and even Mrs Hudson had learned to leave him alone for now - or perhaps she was still teary-eyed about the whole thing.

It _was_ quiet though. Irritatedly quiet. Because the quiet was filled with all the noise that wasn't there, and should be. There should have been the sharp chords of his vioolin, coupled almost harmonically with the incoherent grumblings of John through the ceiling. There should have been shuffling footsteps, tired laughter, comic clicks from the kettle, the huff and puff struggle of of the doctor lugging give bags of shopping up the stairs, the swift sighs of shock and annoyance when John found another limb in some place it shouldn't be.

But there was none of that..._noise_. None at all, because John was dead, as Lestrade had so _delicately_ pointed out. If he had gone, left of his own free will, Sherlock would neither miss him nor blame him. If he was missing, or kidnapped, or being mistaken for the detective again, Sherlock would simply find him in a matter of time, but not miss him. But now, even though the result was the exact same, even though John wasn't there, the simple fact that He. Was. Dead...It was completely different.

Sherlock did miss him.

It must be the regret now, that was getting to him. Carefully remembering back to the other times he had monitored crime victims, Sherlock tried to list the terms of dealing with a death. He had been through the shock, if that's what it was. And he had gotten through it quite easily too. It hadn't taken much, just a nicotine patch - or two - and that had been it. But now here was another, unlikely, unnecessary, emotion. Regret that Sherlock could have stopped it, or that it should have been _Sherlock_ who had been shot, who was dying, or perhaps maybe that John should have never met him, never been encouraged into a flat share. There were a lot of things to regret, he realised, which didn't help the situation.

Flicking his long fingers against the wallpaper, pondering this new emotion and it's possibilities, he lay back on the couch again and unintentionally drifted off into unconscious thoughts...

That was, until a newspaper was thrown at him from across the room, and the sound of wood slammed against something not so strong, and _someone else_ in the room swore grumpily, muttering to themselves about the unfair pain. Sitting up, Sherlock thought that perhaps he was being robbed by a very incompetant burgalar - which would have made a temporarily exciting change - when he stopped. All of him stopped, even his thoughts. _That's strange_, his eyes registered, self-checking over himself for any signs that he was ill. Or perhaps anything at all that could explain the scene before him.

It was John. Good old, army doctor John. Standing in front of gim, half-crouched as he looked closely at his foot, which had just whacked off the edge of the table. Other than the fierce, grumbling threat towards said table, there was a warm, worn smile on his face, one that widened and deepened and softened as he lifted his head to look back at Sherlock.

"Morning. Got you the paper".

He nodded at the crumpled newspaper which lay forgotten in Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock automatically read over the visible front page, taking a vague interest in a series of mysterious robbery killings...What? No, wait..._What?_ Illogical. Nonsensical. Improbably. Impossible. Nope, none of these sprang to mind because Sherlock's brain was currently switched off, out of use, and thrown away with the hand that had resided in the sink. Only his eyes were working, and even then he was dubious, considering the sight before him.

Eventually, when it was evident that John wasn't going away, he stuttered his voice into action as well, "J-John?".

There was a quick nod, still accompanied by that smile. Sherlock stood, and _carefully _side-stepped around the doctor, edging and stumbling, making absolutely sure _not_ to touch him. When he had circled him three times, he stopped, facing John, and peered curiously down into the warm, familiar features.

"John". And then, with an airily dismissive wave of his hand, Sherlock rearranged his face to "bored" and took a step back. "You're alive". Statement. Obvious. Not acceptable explanation.

John shifted on his feet uncomfortably, "Yep. Alive as...".

Sherlock, not noticing the pause, tried again to make sense of this...this, thing. "You were dead". Again, statement. Not helping. Not getting anywhere.

There was an answering frown now, burrowing eyebrows, narrowed, thoughtful eyes, that sigh that only John could muster, and a slight wobble on his feet. And then John jumped, looking back at him respectfully, _apologetically_, the expression he wore when Sherlock was proved undoubtedly right, when John himself had doubted him. "Oh. Yes. Sorry Sherlock. You're right".

And he was gone.

Almost at once Sherlock leapt forwards, clutching at the palce where his friend had just been, and forgetting - no, dismissing - all logic, regretting his own _stupid_ deductions, "No, wait, John! I didn't mean - !".

Stumbling frantically, Sherlock tumbled off the side of the couch and just caught himself before his nose hit the floor. It took a few minutes for him to push himself back up onto the couch again. And then a few more to stand, steadily, on his feet. And then, just those few, extra, _minute_ seconds more to...to look up...and find an empty room.

His eyes were lost. His mind was lost. For once in his life, Sherlock was lost, like he was in some kind of dream. But he wasn't. This was reality, and that had been the dream. Where John was. For a few moments he had a dreading sense that he could never, ever sleep again, knowing John was there, waiting.

But thinking it over again, Sherlock realised that maybe that was the best reason to sleep. Because in his sleep, everything would be fine. In his dreams he had nothing to regret.

oOo

Again, possibly OOC. But this _**is**_ possible, so maybe not. And I am sorry to everyone who felt a growing sense of dread realising that it was just a dream. I think I was genuinely upset when I wrote it, but it has to be so :(

Thank you, so, so, so much for reading, and please leave a review with yours thoughts :)


	4. Denial

Apologies for the delay (my god that sounded posh) but I basially, and quite reasonably, ran out of ideas. Sorry. Don't worry though, one turned up eventually, stumbling and staggering, but it made it. And here it is, Denial, in all it's beauty.

Warning: Drugs mention.

oOo

Denial

"_An unconscious refusal to accept or believe painful realities, thoughts or feelings"_

oOo

_The couch is uncomfortable._

It wasn't a very loud thought, more a whispering, nagging one, as if to remind him of a fact he had already discovered some time ago.

But, ever the dismissive, high-functioning sociopath he promoted himself to be, Sherlock denied the thought any attention and continued to lie there, legs dangling over the end of the couch, one arm reaching and clawing behind his head, and the other mindlessly scratching against the floor.

He was thinking.

With thinking, came the delight of nicotine patches, four of them to be precise, dotted symmetrically along his arm. But this time, they weren't enough. Sherlock needed to think, but he also needed to forget.

That was why there was an opened, but untouched, packet of cigarettes on the table beside him. He was debating, weighing out the negatives and positives. The negatives being that it was impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London, especially with no actual income coming into the flat – not that Sherlock ever needed an incentive but it would have been helpful. Also, there was the fact that smoking did nothing good for your lungs, and in turn for your breathing, which had been pointed out to him before. And however boring breathing was, it was pointlessly necessary to life.

But the positives were looming, and somehow winning. Possibly because they involved John. Smoking was pleasurable, but it was also extremely good at hazing unwanted memories, and making them questionable blurs of the past. And if they happen to quicken his approaching death, perhaps that was good.

Making up his mind in that last thought, Sherlock reached over without much effort, and slipped a couple of cigarettes out of their case. With a bored manner, he lit them both with a cracked plastic lighter and slotted them between his thin lips. Instantly the smoke set him smiling, the aroma choking the air around him until he couldn't see the ceiling any more.

He stayed like that, time slipping continuously away, lost in smoke and haze, until a frown slipped along the cigarettes, and they dropped to the ground as he sat up.

_It still isn't enough, _came a pleading voice from his head. He needed to blank it out, to delete it. It had been easy enough to do with all the other things in his life, all the useless facts about presidents and solar systems, and never, ever needed. But now, when Sherlock most relied upon the skill, it was gone. Or maybe, all it needed was a boost.

Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock hummed and hawed, arguing not only against his head, but the familiar, vague voice in the back of his head, before standing, crossing to the mantelpiece, and stooping to reach into the chimney.

_Stupid Lestrade_, he chimed happily. _Blind Lestrade. Idiotic Lestrade. He could drag together a million "drug busts" and he would still never find them, even when they were in the most obvious place on earth._ Smirking to himself now, Sherlock pulled out the small tin box with both hands and blew away the ash which had settled on it.

The drugs were purely experimental of course. That was what they always had been. Just new, interesting chemicals to mix together and pass the time. But now they proved their true potential, in helping Sherlock forget every single thing about the past two weeks, possibly even the past six months, so that by tomorrow, he could completely deny the fact that John had ever even existed.

Just as he reached towards the clasp on the box, there was a rushed knock on the door and Mrs Hudson entered without hesitation, bustling about with her usual chatter and looking around at the mess with a shaking head.

Quickly shoving the box underneath a chair, Sherlock stood to acknowledge her presences and, to fully express that he was fine, crossed back over to the couch and fell across it, closing his eyes.

Making herself busy by tidying up the things she came across and switching on the kettle for a cup of tea – every now and then mentioning that she was not his housekeeper – Mrs Hudson showed every ounce of her strength in those next few moments, and folded a newspaper onto the coffee table in front of Sherlock with the hurried, smiling words, "A new case, that's what you need dear. Sort you right out. And a cup of tea, just this once mind".

Sherlock nodded away without paying any real attention, only focusing on the box and its contents. He would wait until Mrs Hudson had left, then it would be opened and he could relax.

Blocking out the chattering voice in the background, Sherlock locked up his thoughts and listened to the small humming noise that came from within the walls. Electrical current, Mrs Hudson's TV was probably on. It was disturbingly relaxing...

It was when she was absolutely certain that Sherlock had dozed off, either In sleep or thought, that Mrs Hudson approached the chair, quickly snatched the box out from under it with a disapproving nod, and shuffled out of the door.

Before it closed behind her, she glanced sternly over the sleeping figure, "Not in my life young man. Just think of the grief John would give me".

oOo

When Sherlock awoke, in the very early hours of the morning, he didn't even bother looking over at the chair. He knew fine well that Mrs Hudson had taken it. He had known that since he had started feeling tired. It was probably for the best. She was trying to help, after all.

And what was more, after wanting to deny John's existence altogether only a few hours ago, Sherlock realised suddenly that he didn't want to forget him at all.

oOo

Yes, I did feel like hitting Sherlock when he thought about using drugs, but I couldn't because I wrote the words. So I tried to hit myself on the head and then realised that would look stupid considering I'm sitting in a public library whilst writing it, and people would start to give me odd looks. So instead I wrote in that Mrs Hudson saved him, in her own fussy and caring way.

Anway, there is chapter 3, take it in whichever way you like, as long as there are reviews :) Please and thank you.


	5. Anger

DON'T SHOUT.

OK, yes, it has been...quite a while...

I'll cut to the chase, mostly because I can't think of anything to sAyy...

The **_disclaimer_** is the same thought everyone else in this archive is miserably (or maybe happily) thinking right now: We (that is _I_) do not own _Sherlock_. Sad face.

oOo

Anger

"_An emotional state that may range in intensity from mild irritation to intense hostility"_

oOo

It was, quite possibly, the anger that got through to most people. The rage. The full-force deadly fury, that came unexpectedly from cool stone, to slice and dice and tear apart everyone unfortunate enough to be in its path. No one expected that, not like they had the others.

Everyone – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Sarah, Harry, Donovan, Mike, even _Anderson –_ **Everyone** had _"understood" _when Sherlock had shut himself in his flat for weeks following John's death, and it was the first thing they made sure to tell him when he walked down Baker Street close to a month later.

"Look, Sherlock, I-I understand if you don't want to do this...". Ice blue eyes flickered momentarily from the body on the ground to gaze into Lestrade's, not with confusion, or gratefulness, but disgust.

Still, the "innocent Sherlock" card was played, "Don't want to do what, _Lestrade?_".

DI Lestrade, who had faced crime scenes, massacres, bloodbaths, even managed to face the families of victims, hesitated, forced to look away from the chilling gaze and playful smirk that now graced the taller man's features. The conversation was over, the answer already given through Sherlock's cold glare, but Lestrade couldn't drop it. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, Sherlock had changed.

"_This_ Sherlock. The bodies...th-the deaths. It can't be _easy _examining someone who's been shot in the same place as - ". A swift, pale hand quickly whisked into a stop motion, and a long, sleek black coat was twirled in his face as Sherlock turned away, back to the body.

"Lawyer, married presumably, judging by the indentation marks where the ring should be. I'd say she had one – no...two children. In London for a work-related tri - ".

"Sherlock".

" - p, since Thursday judging by the heels of her shoes...". Sighing distractedly, Sherlock pivoted on his heel, holding out a photograph he had quickly plucked out of the victims coat pocket, and rolling his eyes to find something else to occupy his mind. "Find the man in this photo, find your killer. Now if that was all you bothered to bring me here for, I'll be going". Without another word, Sherlock half-turned to the door and began to leave.

When Lestrade's hand caught his arm, and swung his thin frame back around to face the detective.

"Sherlock, listen to me. You don't have to act like nothing happened. It's perfectly normal to - ".

"Normal?". The word was so quiet, so hushed, Lestrade could almost swear it hadn't been said. But Sherlock's frozen, confused face was enough to confirm it had been. And then his expression distorted, changing frightfully, until cold fire burned behind his eyes.

"Normal, Lestrade?". The deadly whisper cut through him like a knife, the words meant for him only. "What the HELL is normal about me?...NOTHING! I. Am. _Not_. Normal. Full stop, end of sentence. Can your minute pointless little brain not even understand that? I am abnormal, a high-functioning _**psychopathic **_sociopath! That's why he's dead! Because I don't care about people, all I care about is solving the puzzles, and because of that he's dead! I _**killed **_him. And I _still __**don't**_ care!". Shaking Lestrade's grip away violently, he glared at the people that had frozen to watch the scene, and stalked away.

Left awkwardly holding the photograph and staring dimly into the room, Lestrade shook his head with a sigh.

oOo

Back on Baker Street, Sherlock paused outside the Chinese at the corner, distractedly skimming over the menu, even though two orders already leapt to mind. That was the decision-maker, and he trailed away and continued walking.

It was a cool day, although, every day seemed to be colder since he had stepped back out into the world. If truth was to be told – and he liked to think it was – he had completely 'deleted' the reason for spending so much time in the flat, and simply put it down to a rare symptom, from some equally rare disease he must have caught, which had forced him to sleep more, be less alert, and fear the outdoors and it's inhabitants more than usual.

That was the only explanation of ...of most of the facts.

As he shivered through the door, slamming it against the chill, Sherlock unintentionally rested his head against the wood for a second, exhaustion overcoming him.

That was, until there was a soft thud of footfall behind him, and then he was up and awake and perfectly fine again. Offering a brisk smile to Mrs Hudson, he allowed in just enough of a glare to silence any words or thoughts on his action, which could be – quite wrongly of course – misinterpreted as grief.

And being Mrs Hudson, she completely ignored his warning glance and tutted with a sad smile, "Oh Sherlock dear, I understand. I was just the same when my cousin Nora died. Poor thing, had a heart problem. They never realised it until it was too late, the doctor that is...". At the word "doctor", her expression died off with her words, and she gazed somewhat tearfully into the distance for a moment before sighing and smiling again. "Would you like some tea dear? I've got a fresh pot on, if you - ".

But by then, Sherlock had taken the opportunity of her pause to rush past and climb the stairs two at a time, shutting the door of his flat to block out her words.

Now, with no one else there, his façade fell, and he stuttered in mid-step, before shrinking back against the door and falling to the ground. It was here, sitting quite comfortably against the door, that he noticed curiously he was looking at the flat from a new perspective.

The tables were level with the top of his head, as were the seating of the couch and armchairs. The ceiling seemed very high all of a sudden, even though he judged the distance to only be ten or twelve feet. The other objects loomed up around him, looking almost unfamiliar. It was odd, like being a child again and seeing new things in everyday objects.

_I should have experimented on this before_, he mused to himself, smirking. It was enough of a distraction to make him forget why he was on the floor in the first place.

Scrambling for a hold, he pushed himself up again and jumped into a stand, grinning broadly at the room. That is, until his eyes fell on the letter.

It lay, still in it's discarded position, on top of the envelope it had arrived in. Brown spatters of coffee lay in a dried puddle across it and the envelope - and most of the table surface - blurring out the black ink so the words were almost indecipherable.

The coffee had drowned the letter on purpose of course. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He didn't want it to exist. The words. None of them. But he still remembered, every one.

It had been from Harry. Clearly the relationship between her and...him, had been more communicative than Sherlock had guessed. She had known, not only about the flat share, and the flatmate, but about everything. To the extent that she had taken care to write a letter, to Sherlock, saying...well, the exact wording was etched into Sherlock's mind like words on a grave stone.

oOo

_To Sherlock Holmes._

_We've never met, but I feel I know enough about you to know you. You've probably heard of me, in one of John's passing comments about an alcoholic sister and her mistakes, but from what John has told me, I don't expect you to remember that he even had a sister. He said it would be a 'useless fact'._

_I'm not really sure why I'm writing this. You probably won't have time for it. Throw it away. You might not even read it. But I wanted to write this for John's sake, because I finally understand why he is dead and I feel like you have to know. _

_When John got back from Afghanistan, he never really recovered. He got in touch with me, __not straight away but eventually, but never visited. He stayed in a poky flat, with that limp of his, a psychiatrist, and watched the world go by. He told me, probably about a week __after he met you, that he felt completely isolated. He had nobody to even miss him if he died. I probably should have felt offended by that, but I know how un-sisterly I am - __was. _

_He had that blog too. I sometimes checked it, on the rare times I was sober. It was always empty. Nothing changed. John felt he had nothing interesting to write about._

_And then, you came along. Like...Like a light in the dark. You not only gave him something to write about, you gave him something to live for. Someone to be loyal too, to help, some way to fill his life that had been so empty. The therapist had been persuading him that he needed to get used to normal life, get away from the memories of war - who could have guessed that he actually missed it all? _

_And then, it was more than that. He told me that he could see what other people saw you as - an abnormality, a sociopath, arrogant, dismissive, cold - but he didn't mind it, because they couldn't see the other side, the bit that he could also see. The side of you that was simply different from everyone else, caring in your own way, understanding in your own way. Normal, in your own way. _

_And that was why he never left, even when I asked him. Because he could see that you were brilliant, but you needed an audience. He saw from day one that you needed someone dependable, someone for support, even if you couldn't. And from that same day, he was determined to be that someone, because it gave him a purpose he thought was fitting to die for. A purpose he did die for. _

_You might blame yourself - I understand if you do. But then again you might not. Either way, I just want to say that he didn't die for you, or for me, or for Queen and country. He died for himself, because John did what he did, he saved lives, he helped people - he stayed with you - because it completed him._

_I hope this reads out better than it's been written, because all I've done is put down all of John's words about you. You were important to him, his life. You were the person who finally completed him. _

_Yours sincerely, Harriet Watson_

oOo

He was thinking of burning it now. The coffee had blurred the words sure enough, but the evidence was still there. He couldn't stand it. Of course he had read it, every word, and it had tugged and pulled at things Sherlock didn't even think he had. But it couldn't exist any more, because it was weakness at its most weak.

Still, the thought of it dragged words out of the depths of his mind.

_Normal, in your own way. _

Shaking his head he blinked several times, looking for a distraction.

_A purpose he did die for._

Anything, anything! Think Sherlock think. Find something, talk to the skull...

_saved lives...dependable...Someone to be loyal to, to help...completed him._

...experiment, study, observe, deduct. Find a distra -

_You were the person that finally completed him._

On a sudden burst of desperation and frustration, Sherlock threw together pieces of wood, pieces of cloth, into a small pile on the floor, and then searched about for something more. It never made it past his eyes that the fireplace would be a more obvious, more sensible option.

Throwing more things onto the ground, from books to newspaper to parts of experiments, to a second coffee mug, to a union jack cushion, to a pair of shoes that belonged to someone that wasn't important, to an almost rusted cane that unsuccessfully hid behind the couch. It still wasn't enough, not in his mind. After tearing through the kitchen he ran up the stairs, slamming into the first room he came across - which was John's bedroom.

He hadn't been in it yet, hadn't even looked at the normal things that were in their normal places, but would never be normal again. He didn't pay attention any more though. Blind fury was driving him, not logic.

Sweeping his eyes across the room he took it all in once, and then began gathering objects in his arm - the gun, the alarm clock, the laptop, the sleeping pills, the open book on the table- everything John related, would go. Nothing in his head told him that these things wouldn't burn, they would explode; that part of his mind seemed to have run for cover. Finally back downstairs, he dropped the clutter and stared at the mountain of things. _That would work_, his mind whispered menacingly, _but something's missing_. Frowning, he looked around again, searching for the last connection that needed to be wiped out, deleted.

And then, there it was, hanging lifelessly on the back of the other armchair. Casually, still in it's place were it had been tossed and forgotten, ready to be picked up when needed. In two carefully long strides, Sherlock knitted his fingers into the beige wool of the jumper and gazed at it with wide eyes.

It was quiet again, the noise in his head was dimming and dying, and with a fresh blink that watered his eyes, he looked around, confused by what he had done, before watching with a silent dread the gathering of objects by the front door. _They were useless, _he reasoned with himself. _No need to be kept. No need to exist. Burn them, burn them and solve it. Solve the annoying distraction. Solve the puzzle. _

His eyes shifted back to the letter on the table.

oOo

It was a couple of hours later, after leaving the scene – and identifying and finding the man in photograph, who guiltily admitted to killing the lawyer – that Lestrade stood outside 221b, preparing himself to go inside. It took about half an hour before he finally made the long trudge up the stairs, and ten minutes more before he was able to gather enough strength and swing the door open.

Stepping inside, he almost stumbled over a clutter of objects, and was about to pass them off as just another part of Sherlock's mess, when his brain – which was slightly more observant than Sherlock thought – picked up that all of the objects in fact belonged to the late doctor, and that they were thrown together, not placed, and there was a discarded lighter lying next to, but separate, from the pile. Putting two and two together it was not hard to see what Sherlock had been planning.

Frowning deeply at this realisation, Lestrade swept up the lighter and buried it in his pocket, and searched around the flat for Sherlock. But his frown collapsed into a weary smile when he found the consulting detective curled up into the armchair closest to the door, his head buried in a strangely patriotic cushion that was also being clung to with one hand.

Putting a few of the objects on the ground back on the coffee table respectively, Lestrade tiptoed around the edge of the room, putting his finger to his lips when his eyes landed on the mantlepiece, where the skull seemed to be staring at him curiously. Creeping closer, Lestrade breathed out as he realised Sherlock was asleep. But peering just ever so slightly closer, he was both relieved and saddened to see that Sherlock's other hand was curled up against his chest, and was entwined carefully into the structure of a worn, beige jumper.

oOo

Thank you for reading. Please leave a review if you enjoyed it :)


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